


Ret Ven’Tuur Ni Gana Aliit

by nic_writes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Because I wanted to, Boba is dumb, Din is dumb, I tweaked the timeline, M/M, Sad Din, Yodito has the brain cells, boba Is a mandalorian, do not fuck with sarlaccs, emotionally repressed boba, fight me, he's going to be a dad if I force him kicking and screaming, neither of them has any brain cells, not Mandalorian season 2 compliant, or boba fett, sarlacc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:01:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27893503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nic_writes/pseuds/nic_writes
Summary: Boba Fett has always been alone. He had his dad once, but his dad is dead. Most of his brothers are gone too. He's almost gotten used to the ache of loneliness. The last thing he wants is a family, he tells himself. He's too messed up to have a family, he's too violent. He just can't get the little green thing to agree.or:Yodito is a little angel who forcibly socializes Din and Boba.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Yodito, Din Djarin & Boba Fett, Din Djarin & Yodito, Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 15
Kudos: 247





	Ret Ven’Tuur Ni Gana Aliit

**Author's Note:**

> Gay people have secret desert meet-ups.

At first, it’s just a point of sharply reflected light and shadow, perhaps a rock, Din thinks. But his heat sensor shows a halo of red around the pile. It’s alive, but barely so. And whatever it is, it’s been beaten brutally. He slows his speeder bike to a stop and pulls out his binoculars; it’s a humanoid, that much he can tell, wearing armor. A Mandalorian. From inside their pram, closed against the stabbing suns, the child chirps softly.

Din sighs; he’s five clicks east of the nearest settlement and the person, whoever they are, doesn’t look like they can make it one more meter through the sand. It’s on him to haul their ass back.

Where did they come from? he wonders as he shuffles down the shifting side of a sand dune. The desert wind is picking up and he’s glad that he closed the pram, otherwise it would probably be full of sand and a crying child. They’re in bad shape, barely crawling and it’s impossible that they’d dragged themself here from the nearest town, not to mention absolutely counterintuitive. Perhaps they fled on jetpack and then crash-landed but there’d be an explosion site, burnt sand and smoke, absolutely huge on his heat sensor, and anyway, Din would have heard something about it. Maybe they fell out of a speeder or something? He frowns, toys with it for a few seconds. But again, there would be an impact and he can’t really imagine any reason the Mandalorian would get left behind. The last possibility is this: the Mandalorian had gotten taken by Jawas, who dropped them when they’d woken up and turned out to be a living thing and not a hunk of scrap metal. _Kriffing Jawas._

Din pauses about 10 meters away from the Mandalorian, pushes the pram to a stop (the child coos softly but seems oddly calm) and draws a pistol. Experience has taught him that they may be faking and getting attacked isn’t something he’s particularly interested in. Even a half-dead _Mando’ad_ can be dangerous.

As he takes slow steps closer, alert for any strange movements, he can’t help but feel as though he’s missed something. Even though he’s considered what he feels to be every possible way the person came to be sprawled out and bloodied over the sand, something tells him that it’s none of the above. Then what?

He levels the pistol in a two-handed grip for a kill shot, then approaches slowly. Nothing. So he kneels down and reaches a cautious hand out to turn their head to the side. Flakes of green and red paint, dented and worn down and eaten away by acid so much that he can’t tell the original design, and the stub of an antenna. No- he realizes suddenly. Not an antenna. A range-finder.

Din stumbles backwards a few feet and has his disintegrator rifle out and aimed at the Mandalorian within a matter of seconds. Not just any Mandalorian, he realizes. Boba Fett. Just his luck, Boba fucking Fett, sprawled out in the middle of nowhere and looking for all the world to be broken on Death’s doorstep. _The sarlacc._

About a year ago, Din had heard the tail end of a whisper. A job with a bad ending, Boba Fett and a sarlacc and a smuggler. There had been rumors floating around for years that Fett had met a bad end at one job or another and so Din had brushed it off as rumor and only that, hadn’t thought about it much. He’d run into the Child about six months after that, and everything irrelevant had gone straight out of his head. But there were whispers, there always were whispers, and eventually Din had decided that either Fett had gone into hiding (unlikely) or he really had been offed by that Corellian with a big mouth (which seemed almost just as unlikely, Fett was a legend and Solo was a scruffy upstart).

Except it looks like Fett hadn’t. At least not yet.

There’s a low groan; Fett’s head lifts ever so slightly and Din very nearly presses the trigger. But after an aborted attempt to move a few inches, Fett drops his head down onto the sand again with a soft thud. Either he’s an excellent faker or he really has been beaten within an inch of his life.

Din weighs his options. He really only has two. Shoot Fett right now or haul his ass along and try to heal the fucker. Chances are Fett would die anyways.

Boba Fett. One of the most dangerous people in the galaxy. And Din could kill him. Right now.

He swallows, fiddles with the trigger. Boba Fett. His father Jango had been a legend. Boba was a legend too, but in the worst way, infamous. He’d abandoned the Creed, not only just the Creed, he didn’t follow the _resol’nare. Dar’manda_ in the most absolute sense. Some of the most aggressively traditionalist Mandalorians hated him for that alone. But Din never saw it as a point of condemnation. It was rumored that he was vicious, didn’t care for anybody or anything in the world, only hated. People said that Fett only ever took, gave none to his family because he had no family. He’d sided with the Empire over his own people. It was this point that brought even the most level-headed Mandalorians to anger.

He lifts the rifle up to eye-level to take aim, even though he really doesn’t need to look through the scope to disintegrate Fett. Then pauses.

_Goddammit._

Din has never really hated Fett. A lot of people he knows always have. But he can’t. What he knows about Fett’s past is nothing but speculation and legend but the people agree that he was an orphan, that he’d never had a family or anybody to love or to love him. Alone. The galaxy loves a lone rider who doesn’t need anybody, stoic. Dangerous. To Din, that always sounds like the loneliest, most painful life to live. Without a family.

No, Din doesn’t hate Fett. Perhaps he pities him.

At his feet, Fett groans softly and makes another half-attempt to move.

Dammit. He can’t kill Fett, not when the man is such a broken mess.

\-----------------

He has to take off most of Fett’s armor to treat the wounds. It’s a splintered mess anyways, bent and probably squeezing Fett’s body and digging into his skin (when Din manages to pry off the chestplate, Fett’s flight suit is soaked in blood and Din’s fingertips come away red). There’s very little he can do with the medic pack that he has: a scanner, a portable IV and fluid bags, some pain killers, bandages and gauze, a cauterizing pen, hyposprays, and bacta.

The good news (good? He wonders as he cleans a cut) is that the cuts are mostly superficial and he makes quick work of them with the cauterizing pen and some bacta. Fett’s probably dehydrated, maybe has heat stroke. Din puts in an IV and wraps the cord and the fluid bag around Fett’s arm. The med-scanner on the other hand turns up a mess: a punctured lung and three broken ribs. Din sits back on his heels for a second, staring at the display. _Fuck._ Din doesn’t have the supplies he needs to treat Fett, nor the skill. If the man’s going to survive, he needs a real doctor and probably a hospital stay.

The ribs wouldn’t be a problem, not on their own but the lung is serious. Right now, the only thing holding off a full collapse is Fett’s own stubbornness. Din desperately tries to recall the brief medical lessons he took. Collapsed lung, collapsed lung. Din gives him a hypospray, which should hopefully buy him a few more hours, maybe enough time to get Fett to a doctor. Normally he would wrap Fett’s chest, but that might just make the lung situation worse. _Fuck._ He knows first-aid and basic medical care, not the level of intricacy or knowledge that this sort of treatment needs.

The sun is beating down on his back and burns the back of his neck, the tiny sliver of skin that must show when he tips his helmet forwards. It stings already. Fett hasn’t moved at all, except to twitch once or twice and Din can’t tell if he’s getting better or worse, or even if in his half-conscious state, the man has noticed anything.

He leans back, puts a gloved hand on the sunburnt bit of his neck. He forgets that his fingers are bloody and probably smears streaks of reddish over his skin. Ka’ra, what is he doing? Assuming Fett doesn’t die within the next ten minutes (he’s still not quite sure whether the hypospray is working, Fett hasn’t gotten any noticeably better, but then again he hasn’t gotten any worse), Din isn’t even sure how he’s supposed to get Boba onto the bike and back to Mos Eisley.

 _Mandalorians aren’t supposed to be this stupid,_ Paz used to tell him, tapping the side of his _buy’ce_ in that antagonistic way of his. Din used to tell him to go fuck himself and Paz would laugh and then Din would punch him in the _buy’ce_. Din’s normally a level-headed, quiet sort of person, but Paz is very talented at riling him up. A tendril of loneliness wraps around his throat. He misses the bickering, however violent it used to get. It had been a familiar, comfortable sort of skin. He doesn’t know where Paz is anymore. He doesn’t even know whether Paz is still alive. Or Tar’la, or Ruhnok, or Rasuum, or- he cuts himself off, swallows hard and presses down against the sadness that is swelling inside of his chest.

Fett. He has to keep Fett alive, for Ka’ra knows what reason.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Tumblr @a-dumb-writing-gay, main @dom-i-nic
> 
> Mando'a translations:  
> Mando'ad: Mandalorian  
> resol'nare: six tenets of Mandalorian culture. You have to follow all 6 or you will be considered dar'manda  
> dar'manda: a state in which a person is no longer Mandalorian and is without culture or honor. Considered one of the worst things to happen to a Mandalorian. Soulless.  
> buy'ce: helmet
> 
> Whoever left a homophobic slur in the comments (which I deleted, dw), I'm gonna make them kiss just for you <3


End file.
